User blog comment:Biggren/The Northern March Original/@comment-3135907-20170110030234/@comment-3135907-20170406015221

The old forest behind them exploded with a shower of snapping branches and torn leaves as a horde of crude arrows and slung spears kicked up sand and clods of earth. Feffle remained motionless, paw raised and pointing as the tree rats surged from the woodland canopy, paws striking ground and running toward the four with a concerted howl.

The brook, either ignorant or more likely simply aloof of the tree rats' tuneless chorus, continued to babble in peaceful swirling eddies around the bootless footpaws of the jolly bearded searat with the striped bandana on his head and the twinkle in his eye- and on the blade of the sail-guard cutlass at his side. He sat simply on the bank opposite the action, apparently cooling his furred plantās after a long march, a process further evidenced by the rat's boots, sitting innocently beside him on the wet grass.

His brown eyes narrowed at the vermin, the hares, and the charging Painted Ones, then winced into twin crescents that radiated some sort of obvious comedy about the whole situation missed by all else present.

The rat wiggled his toeclaws. "Grand day fer a dip, eh, shipmates?"